


White Winter Hymnal

by Aloysia_Virgata



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 15:25:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8107693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aloysia_Virgata/pseuds/Aloysia_Virgata
Summary: She smiles thinly, tightening her scarf. She is thirty four now, older than Christ.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The title is stolen from the Fleet Foxes song of the same name. This was written for @txf-fic-chicks birthday challenge, requiring the words red, London, and cake.

There are ghosts afoot in London, stirred by the excesses of humanity in the face of their own dull eternity. Or perhaps just wicked elementals; perhaps these have never been alive at all and merely feel puckish in the grip of winter. But there is mischief in them all the same. They snatch umbrellas and puncture tires. They broke the necks of 143 starlings and strung them along a telephone wire via a mechanism yet to be determined. Dogs have been leaping over the red arches of Blackfriars Bridge, wrenching leashes from their masters’ hands in their grim determination to self-destruct. Three toddlers attempted the same, but were stopped. Barely.  


***

Mulder was nearly giddy when he found out.

“Happy early birthday, Scully,” he said, and displayed two boarding passes to Heathrow like they were winning lottery tickets.

She stared at them in mute acceptance. Certainly better than Cheney, and she had never been to London.

***

February in London is raw and grey as a wet rope, the occasional daffodil saucily poking its head out to remind the city of things to come. 

Scully has been fragile in the cold since Antarctica. She is bundled in a down-filled parka, a scarf around her neck and kidskin gloves lined in lambswool. Time feels syrupy here, as though it doubles back on itself by mistake and slices of the past might peep through the folds. 

They are walking along the Thames, Mulder pointing out the spots where the dogs have leapt over. He tells her of Overtoun Bridge in Scotland, and the cold slips fingers down her neck. She will sort out an explanation for it later. Perhaps minks in the underbrush, if they were hunting breeds.

“Sixty-some dogs at Overtoun in the past fifty years,” Mulder says. “Five here so far in a month.”

Scully peers into the water, lifeless and deep. Only two of the dogs’ bodies were recovered. “The birds,” she says. “What about them?

He shrugs expansively, delighting in the mystery. “Threaded like beads about three blocks that way,” he says, pointing. “No one can figure it out. No damage to the birds, other than having broken necks and two small holes to accommodate the wire. It hadn’t been cut, either.”

She doesn’t like it. “Mind if we discuss this over dinner?” Scully asks. “It’s getting cold.”

“I already have reservations, birthday girl.”

She smiles thinly, tightening her scarf. She is thirty four now, older than Christ.

***

The Red Lion in Westminster fits her idea of London, wood-paneled and dark, signage boasting ALE AND PIE. There are heavy leather chairs, stools with dense upholstery. A small quartet of musicians is set up in a corner and she prays Mulder hasn’t done anything as dreadful as arranging for them to sing to her. He is often a whim away from disaster.

The pub is warm, full of savory smells that make her stomach growl. She scans the menu, overwhelmed by how much she wants to try it all.

“Everything’s good,” Mulder says. “I used to come here a bit when I was at school.”

She notices the Britishism of _at_ rather than _in_. It’s easy to forget Mulder is a well-educated New England man rather than merely an attractive and charming lunatic. She thinks briefly of Phoebe Green, wondering if that’s who gave him the story. Her insecurity annoys her and she tamps it down.

In the corner, the musicians begin the Lyke-Wake Dirge.

_This ae nighte, this ae nighte  
Every nighte and alle,  
Fire and fleet and candle-lighte,  
And Christe receive thy saule._

Mulder grimaces. “A bit mournful for a celebration, sorry.”

Scully shrugs. “It’s pretty.” And creepy as hell, creepy as Blackfriars Bridge had been, even with its cheery crimson arches.

Feeling entitled to indulgence, she orders the tasting board when the waitress comes by. Mulder opts for the classic steak and kidney pie. He also orders a couple of pints of some ale she’s never heard of.

“Oh, hey, I got you something,” Mulder says. He reaches around to his coat and extracts a small bag from the inside pocket. It is white and printed with glittery red cupids.

“Um,” she says.

“Yeah, well, I picked it up around Valentine’s Day. It was this or hot pink with hearts.” He hands her the bag. “Go ahead and open it.”

Scully pulls out the candy-striped tissue, revealing a small black velvet box.

“It’s not jewelry,” Mulder says, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. 

“Mulder, shut up and let me open my present.”

He sits back, contrite.

The box is heavy for its size. She opens it, revealing a smooth glass object shaped like a tadpole. It is about the size of her palm.

“Ohhhh,” she says. “I’ve always wanted one of these.”

Mulder is grinning from ear to ear. “Yeah?”

She looks up at him. “A Prince Rupert’s drop, where did you find it?”

He waves his hand. “Oh, you know…”

Scully runs her finger along the thick end, avoiding the tail. “It’s a perfect balance of compressive and tensile stresses,” she murmurs. “But dangerous.” Gently, so as not to set it off, she closes the box.

“You really like it?” he asks, knowing perfectly well that she does.

“It’s not a keychain, but it’ll do.”

He grins. “So listen, Scully, I’m thinking poltergeists, maybe. This doesn’t feel ghostly to me.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“Har har.”

The waitress sets their food down, steam curling up in plumes. They poke the crusts open to let heat escape.

“Poltergeists of London,” Scully muses, resting her fork on a napkin. “I hope you’ve called Warren Zevon about a musical homage to this investigation.”

“I’m keeping my options open. There’s a guy I want to talk to tomorrow at the British Museum regarding the history of the bridge. Thought we could go early, have a look around the museum. I figured you’d enjoy it.”

The British Museum has been part of her lifelong to-do list. She is amused by a brief image of Mulder as a an overly-enthusiastic docent. “That would be great, thanks.” 

Their food has cooled enough for a few tentative bites. Scully closes her eyes happily, tasting mushrooms and meat and rich gravy. It is the perfect meal for February, and she wishes such pies would become the next American culinary trend.

“You okay there? Need a moment?”

Scully blinks, blushing red as the serpent on her caudal spine. “‘S really good,” she answers. She washes the mouthful down with some ale. “Mulder, why are we in London?” 

He looks confused. “The bridge and, um, the starlings and the stuff with pedestrians…?”

“The emphasis was meant to be on ‘we,’ not ‘London.’ This hasn’t got a thing to do with the FBI, Mulder. Not even by your tenuous measure.”

He pokes at a chunk of crust, looking a bit wounded. “Well. I don’t mean to drag you into my relentless mission to defraud the US taxpayer, Scully. You can head home if you want.”

She sighs. “Mulder. Come on.”

He shrugs. 

Her expression softens. “You’re not getting reimbursed for this trip, are you?” His money was never something they discussed, not something she’d given any thought to until Antarctica. She had lacked the sophistication to tell off the rack from bespoke, but she can see it so clearly now; his careless Hickey Freeman and cashmere topcoat. His jaunts to the bottom of the planet.

“I genuinely want to know what’s going on around that bridge,” he says. “And I thought you might like it here. Sue me. Kind of felt like I owed you a trip somewhere interesting.”

“I don’t know what to say.” She has ideas, though. Involving Dr. Parenti.

From the corner, _John Barleycorn_ begins.

Mulder balances peas on the handle of his fork, then launches them onto Scully’s plate. “Promise you’ll let me crack the Prince Rupert drop with you.”

“It wouldn’t be any fun otherwise.”

He smashes a pea with the tines of his fork. “Mushy peas. Can you believe that’s a culinary triumph around here?”

“Beans on toast,” she says with a grimace. Breakfast had disappointed her.

From the corner of her eye she sees a light. Twisting in her chair reveals it to be the waitress carrying a small cake topped with a candle. 

She turns to Mulder, glaring.

“Just the cake!” he exclaims, hands up in defense. “No singing.”

The waitress presents Scully with sponge cake oozing jam and whipped cream, liberally dusted with powdered sugar. “Happy birthday, miss,” she says before walking off.

“No Sno-Balls here, so I opted for a miniature Victoria Sponge.”

Scully pokes a finger into the ruby-colored jam, then licks it. “Raspberry.”

“Only one man would dare give me the raspberry,” Mulder intones. 

They say “Lone Star!” at the same time, then laugh.

Scully blows out the single candle before Mulder is stricken by a fancy to sing. She cuts into the cake, then startles when the knife clunks into something hard. “What on earth…?”

Mulder has assumed an expression of studied confusion. 

She reaches into the cake, then, with a look of exasperation, withdraws a tiny red double-decker bus on a keychain. “Mulder.”

“How strange.”

She dunks a napkin into her water glass to clean off the toy. “I hardly have enough keys to justify one, you know.”

“Put my key on this one, then.”

She drives the car around the table. “Is this going to be a thing with you? Every trip around the sun earns me a keychain?”

“The earth’s revolution makes my day, Scully.”

She throws a wadded napkin at him, groaning. Then she returns her attention to the cake, serving two slices. She licks filling from her thumb.

“So what are you thinking on the bridge, really?” Scully takes a bite of her cake. It is light and not overly sweet. She may have found a new favorite.

“Mmmm, hard to say. You really want to talk shop tonight, though?”

She does not.

“What do you love most about England?” she asks. “Since we’re here.”

He considers this over a mouthful of cake. “Old,” he says after a moment. “There’s so much history it just kind of seeps out of things.” He looks down, laughs in his self-deprecating way. “That sounds dumb, huh?”

“No,” she says fondly. “It doesn’t.” 

Rain picks up outside, pattering on the heavy-paned windows. They eat and drink. They smile. Mulder races the little red bus along her shoulder and down her arm. The musicians play _Greensleeves_ and _Alice Grey_. Some instrumental pieces.

Tomorrow is ghosts and dogs, the murder of starlings and frightened pedestrians shaken from their stodgy comfort. Rows of beautiful, purloined artifacts.

Tonight, though. Tonight the moon is hidden and the rain is cold. But inside it is cake and ale and the comfort of loving well.


End file.
